Leftovers
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: A collection of short ficlets, generally written for prompts on tumblr. Characters/pairings are listed in the title of each chapter.
1. Tucker, Caboose

First line provided by akisawana on tumblr: "Tucker wished, suddenly and desperately, for his father."

* * *

See, the thing about Wash was that the guy would probably live out the rest of his days eating nothing but military-issue ration bars. Given the chance, he'd stoically chew his way to the eventual heat-death of the universe. And Caboose might have a sweet tooth big enough to bore down to the center of the planet, but put him anywhere near an oven and just, you know. Fire. Death. Explosions. Screaming. All that good stuff.

So basically what this all boiled down to was that Tucker was currently the only person in Blue Base who, as the son of a moderately famous pastry chef, had the first idea how to bake a cake.

"Listen up, fuckers," he said. Caboose blinked at him. The rest of the room echoed emptily "Fucker," he amended. "I'm sick of what passes for food around here, so I am gonna bake a cake, I am gonna do it once, it is gonna be fucking incredible, and we are never gonna speak of it again."

Caboose's voice rose to a deafening stage-whisper. "Is it Agent Wash's birthday?"

"Sure," Tucker said. "That works. Fuck it. Happy birthday, Agent Asshole. And what I need from you, Caboose, is—"

"To be as far away from the kitchen as humanly possible," Caboose intoned.

"Farther," said Tucker, checking one of the base's cupboards for something he could use as a substitute for eggs. "Why are all the cupboards full of beef jerky?"

He glanced up. The kitchen counter was, impossibly, on a whole lot of fire. "Tucker did it," Caboose said.

Tucker sighed and rested his forehead against the cheap plastic of the wall, trying to drag back childhood memories of a warm kitchen and raised, laughing voices. The smell of fresh dough. The smell of burning sugar. He wondered, vaguely, whether the Sangheili had pasty chefs.

Then he sighed and reached out for the extinguisher, which was, of course, already on fire.


	2. Grif, Kai, Simmons

First line provided by hatepig on tumblr: "As the wave of kittens hit them, Grif knew in his heart that this was Kaikaina's fault."

* * *

"You did this," he said.

Kai appeared to consider the possibility, then said, solemnly, "Nuh-uh."

"You _did this_," Grif said. He was vaguely aware that his voice was cracking with anger. He held up his controller, which rattled ominously as wave three of kittens filled the screen. "There is no fucking way we hit the Ultimate Kitten Explosion Chapter in two fucking minutes. I still had like twelve Rainbow Pods to uncover before we advanced! What the fuck?"

Kai brightened. "You're still a boring completionist when you play video games, Dex. That's nice. I missed that."

"You did it on purpose! I needed that achievement!"

Simmons poked his head into the room, like he wasn't standing in the hallway the whole time listening to them play. Fucking nerd. "Hey, uh," he said. "You know you can just wait for Ultimate Kitten Rainbow Pod Explosion and capture the pods then, right?"

"Yeah, but then you only get half credit."

"Sure, but there are twice as many—"

"Sorry, I didn't get a degree in nerd math."

"It's _simple division_."

Kai made a noise that was a lot like "Grahugggggh" only with more vowels and disdain. Then she said. "You guys are so _boring_," and reached out, unplugged the console, and started across the room with it, snatching up Grif's controller as she went.

Grif stared after her. "Hey, that's mine! It took me forever to buy that!"

"I built it!" Simmons said. "It's mine!"

"Nah," Kai said. "I'm gonna go take it to Grey Base and ask Tex if she wants to play. And trust me, you don't want to get between Tex and her video games."

She left. Grif stared. Simmons said, softly, "You know, it's double the number of pods, so even though they're worth half as much—"

"Oh, shut up."


	3. Freelancers

First line provided by ramblingredrose on tumblr: "It had gotten to the point where Carolina thought they were completely screwed."

* * *

In a quiet moment, she rounded on her team. "Poor defensive positioning. Friendly fire. What the hell are we even doing out there?"

"Plotting revenge on whoever invented gravity hammers," Wyoming said. He was breathing heavily, Carolina noticed, and resolved to start leaning on him to actually keep to his prescribed training regimen. He'd been slipping, lately. They'd all been slipping.

"At this point," Carolina said, "We'd probably wind up completely annihilating ourselves before getting said revenge."

"That's a little harsh," Wash said.

South standing behind him, elbowed North, who glowered. "Seriously, you guys are terrible," she said.

"South," Carolina said, "is the only valuable asset on this team at the moment."

"Oh, come on," said York. "I got the assist on that shot."

"_I_ got the assist," said CT. "You took a direct hit to the forehead, distracting them enough for South and me to slip through."

"Well," said York, "I assisted, didn't I? Better than Maine putting that guy in the infirmary!"

Everybody looked at Maine. Maine shrugged. "Sorry," he said.

Carolina stared at him. Stared at all of them. Sighed, and shouldered her gravity hammer. "Okay, kids. Back to work. The 14th UNSC Invitational Grifball Tournament isn't gonna lose itself."


	4. CT, Tex

First line provided by thought- on tumblr: "'Okay,' Connie says as soon as Tex enters the room, "don't freak out."

* * *

To punctuate the statement, Connie puts on her most winning smile which, admittedly, is looking a little frazzled. Tex just stares at her. With the helmet, she's got a poker face to rival Maine's.

Finally, Tex says, "You told me you needed my help."

"Yup," Connie says. Her voice squeaks a little. Maybe.

"With—" Tex peers past her into her quarters. "Six suggestively shaped balloons, three, no, four small rodents, and what looks like it might actually be a live goat."

"The hamsters got out," Connie says, striving for a casual tone. "It's a thing. They're smarter than they look, apparently."

"Okay," Tex says. Her voice is admirably level. "And you need my help why?"

The goat bleats, and Connie shushes it. "You heard about the prank war?"

"Yes," says Tex, cautiously, but she uncrosses her arms and steps into the room, neatly capturing one of the runaway hamsters and holding it in her cupped hands.

Connie grins. "You want in?"


	5. Cat: SouthMaine

Prompt provided by loquaciousquark on tumblr: "Cat, pairing of your choice."

* * *

"This is going to be a problem," South says.

Maine just blinks at her, slowly. She's not really used to seeing him without his helmet, but the whole poker face thing he's got going isn't a whole lot more expressive. Anyway, the helmet's currently occupied.

"No," South says. "See, you do this whole thing where you're very calm and stoic and terrifying, but throw something like this at you and you're just useless."

Maine shrugs, returning his attention to his upside-down helmet. From its depths, a questioning _prrt?_ echoes when he reaches one hand in.

"Besides," says South, with the same feeling she gets when enemy reinforcements are advancing inexorably on her position, "it's an ugly-ass cat."

That causes Maine to glance up at her sharply, and—holy shit, does he actually make a move to cover the cat's ears so it won't be offended?

"It's got one eye and it's like ninety percent fleas," she says, a little more desperately, because she can hear the Pelican's engines. Evac's on the way. "Even Wash would think twice."

Maine shrugs, lifts the mangy little cat out of his helmet, and perches it on his shoulder. From there, it claws its way along the cowl of his armor, clinging determinedly to the unlatched seals, and attempts to hop up onto his head like some sort of patchy toupee.

"It's a mess," South says. The cat, abandoning its ascent, instead starts fastidiously grooming Maine's stubbled head. It's irritatingly adorable. She scrubs at her face with the palm of one hand to cover up her smirk.

Maine cracks a smile. Like, an honest-to-god smile. "Yeah," he says, and next thing she knows, his hand's resting heavy on the top of her head, tousling her hair, and she's still trying desperately to smother her own grin. "Sounds familiar."


	6. Kick in the Head: Wyoming, Maine

Prompt provided by nightrae on tumblr: "Kick in the Head, Wyoming and Maine."

* * *

Maine doesn't like Wyoming. He's sneaky. Conniving. Pretentious. Cruel.

Worst of all, he's _jovial_. He cracks inane jokes that slide in smooth and unnoticed, only to fester as they settle beneath the skin. He takes people apart calmly and smoothly from a distance. There's something dishonest about that distance, about the illusion of clean hands, and everything about Maine's life has conditioned him to hate dishonesty.

So when Wyoming strides up beside him on the training field and says, "I'm with you on this one, old chap," Maine takes a moment to focus on his breathing and manages, with an effort, not to punch him across the room. "Just heard Agent York's with us too," Wyoming says, which gives Maine pause. "Three-on-one, awfully peculiar, I know. Rough welcome for a rookie."

Maine grunts noncommittal agreement as he checks the chamber of his pistol, to be used after the pugil stick and hand-to-hand components of the match. More fighting at a distance. Great.

"Lockdown paint," Wyoming says with a sigh. "How unutterably dull." He's playing with something in one hand, running it over his knuckles in a show of casual dexterity. It takes Maine a moment to recognize it as a pistol magazine. Live ammo.

Wyoming catches him looking. The grin is obvious in his voice. "Don't look so shocked, my boy," he says. "Just a little something to spice up the match." He elbows Maine, who stiffens. "I know, I know, it's against regulations. But I know you have a temper. And I know you hate to be beaten. And, quite frankly, the fact that the Director has pitted all three of us against a raw recruit makes me seriously doubt our ability to win by any other means."

He's lying, Maine thinks, but he can't figure out how or why. Wyoming holds out the magazine for a moment, then shrugs when Maine doesn't take it. "Fair enough," he says. "But trust me, you'll take it next time I offer. There's change on our doorstep, my boy. This is no place for hesitation." He rolls his shoulders, then points to the entrance, where a figure in black armor is stalking into the arena with a purpose. "Knock-knock, Agent Maine."


	7. Breaking the Rules: KimballCarolina

Prompt provided by blaze-edge on tumblr: "Breaking the Rules, Kimball/Carolina"

* * *

Carolina's falling asleep at her desk, well on her way to drooling on the latest draft of the New Republic's security org chart (complete with its endless annotations from her counterpart in the Federal Army), when the sound of a cleared throat behind her jolts her back to full awareness. She turns, wincing as the room lurches. She's maybe been missing out on more sleep than she should; even with Epsilon off doing his own thing, the damn nightmares keep intruding, flames at the edge of her awareness every time she closes her eyes.

Vanessa's standing behind her, wearing an old hoodie over her work clothes. Her eyes are a little too wide, like she just downed an entire carafe of coffee. "C'mere," she says, and walks out the door. Carolina stumbles to her feet and follows.

It takes her a few minutes to realize they're walking off-base, and she stumbles to a halt. "Where are we going? I should get a car. You should have a security detail—"

Vanessa shrugs. The feverish light in her eyes is, actually, bordering on alarming. "I have an ex-Freelancer with me. What better security detail is there?"

Carolina squints at her, but she's already nodded crisply and moved on. When Vanessa nods crisply, the conversation's over. Done. No further debate possible. The tides stop in their tracks. So Carolina, sleep-drunk and marginally reassured by the pistol holstered at her side, can do nothing but trail in her wake.

Vanessa takes them out to the hills that border the Armonia River valley, and tosses Carolina her hoodie when her shivering becomes too obvious to ignore. Vanessa seems immune to the cold, anyway; Carolina thinks blearily of flames. The path is wide and reasonably well-lit, but Carolina makes a point to glower at any late-night joggers careless enough to cross their paths. Nobody seems to notice that a notoriously dangerous rebel, recently the target of three separate assassination attempts, is wandering the hills with them.

The borrowed hoodie is still warm with the heat of Vanessa's body. Carolina wonders how one person can produce so much warmth. How one person can possibly have enough left over to share.

When Vanessa stops, Carolina walks into her, then stumbles back. They've ventured a little ways out from the beaten path, into a clearing ringed with the twisted, grasping silhouettes of trees. Carolina scrubs at her face, trying to focus on something beyond the numbness in her limbs. "General," she says, "I think we should—"

Vanessa's teeth flash white in the darkness. "Look up," she says.

Carolina does. The stars are alarmingly bright. As she watches, a brief flicker catches her eye; remembering her training, she keeps that sector of the sky in her peripheral vision, more adept at picking up light in the darkness. She's rewarded with another glimmer, then another. "Meteor shower," she says.

"This was a mistake," Vanessa says. Carolina blinks, glances over to see her pacing, her hands buried in her pockets. She looks cold, but the absurdity of offering her back her hoodie gives Carolina pause. "You've been a good friend," Vanessa continues. She's speaking to the ground, moving mechanically in short, quick strides. She hasn't slept in almost forty-eight hours, Carolina thinks. "More than that. You've been an advisor. A mentor. And I hope I've been some solace to you. I think we're good for each other, Carolina. With each other." She hesitates, then turns. Carolina meets her halfway.

It's a good kiss. Objectively. And when Vanessa's teeth drag against her lower lip, Carolina has to very sternly remind herself that they're off-base, that even a minor incident on base could require one or both of them on a moment's notice, and that their absence will be noted shortly.

So she pulls away, just a little, and laughs when Vanessa immediately buries a hand in her hair and drags her closer again. "Did you really drag me all the way up here for a romantic make-out session?" Carolina asks.

Vanessa laughs, pressing her forehead into Carolina's shoulder for a moment. "It was Palomo's idea," she says.

"Jesus," Carolina says, carding her fingers through Vanessa's hair. "You really do everything by committee." She pauses as the words penetrate. "_Palomo_?"

"It's been a long week," says Vanessa, a little defensively.

Carolina laughs. "A long two months. C'mere." She pulls the hoodie off her shoulders, draws back long enough to wrap it around Vanessa's. "When we walk back, you let me take care of you for a bit."

"Trade-off, huh?" Vanessa gives a long, satisfied sigh. "I think I can work with that."

Carolina grins, tugs the hood up to cover Vanessa's head—and half her face. "Back to work?"

Vanessa tugs the hood back with a mock glower. "Back to work," she says.

All of a sudden, that prospect's considerably less daunting.


	8. Pen and Paper: North, CT

Prompt provided by chillakeet on tumblr: "Pen and Paper, CT and North"

* * *

The letter is written on paper, which is something of a novelty. South looks at it like she's expecting it to explode, and—

Theta latches onto the thought, his worry screamingly loud, _It couldn't really explode though, could it? What would we do if it exploded? How would we survive? It's so close, North. It's right there._

South looks at him sharply when he presses a hand to his forehead; he manages a weak smile for her, murmurs reassurances under his breath until Theta calms down.

People always used to ask him if there was any truth to the whole psychic-twin-bond thing. He'd always sort of brushed it off as bullshit, but these days South doesn't have to say a word for him to replay entire conversations in his head. She punctuates today's ongoing internal debate with a vocal component, no less of an echo. "You'll have to pull him someday, North, he's killing you. Killing us."

_I'd never hurt you, North. I'm just afraid. You'll take care of me. I trust you. She doesn't._

That last surge of bitterness and frustration is new, and North frowns, trying to come up with a way to prod gently at the thought without sending Theta into another panic.

South is scowling at him. "You gonna open it or what? Mysterious letters don't just randomly end up in your backpack every day when you're on the run, after all."

"Oh," North says, "when I'm on the run, I like to make sure I get every luxury. Letters written on actual paper. Fresh cherries. Silk sheets. You know, really live it up."

South snorts. Theta echoes it with a little flare of amusement. It's a good moment. North doesn't mention the other five letters he managed to keep hidden from her, or the ones he sent in return while she slept.

He unfolds the letter.

**Your sister may be compromised. I don't know. Things are complicated. Believe me, North, I hate keeping this from her, too. But we can't trust her yet. If this one gets rough, I'm out. For good, this time. I'm only sticking around because I want to see all of you make it clear of this, too.**

**I've managed to gain access to certain files, and according to all the reports I can find, our mutual friend died at the bottom of that cliff. That doesn't sound much like her, does it? I'm still out of commission for a few more weeks—the funny thing about faking your death is how much medical treatment's involved when you cut it too close—but then I'll be able to help in the field.**

**Give me time, North. I'll work out how to fix this. In the meantime, be careful—word is, something out there's hunting Freelancers. Keep yourself safe. Keep your sister safe. The Project's on its last legs and if we can all meet up with some mutual friends, we've got a real chance to strike the killing blow. We have to take that chance.**

North exhales slowly, folds the letter and buries it in a compartment of his armor. South stares at him, communicating silent disapproval. Theta wonders, as he always does, why CT never mentions him in her letters.

Finally, South shrugs and slaps him on the shoulder. "Everything good?"

"Yeah," he says, and pulls his helmet on. "Just about."


	9. Teamwork: WashCT

Prompt provided by completelysane on tumblr: "Teamwork, Wash/CT"

* * *

As soon as the door closes, Connie jogs up to meet him. "Hey," she says. "How'd it go?"

He combs a hand back through his hair, watches her smile fade. "No," he says quickly, "it's fine, I didn't tell them where you were. I covered for you."

She captures his hand with her own, stopping his nervous motion. "Wash," she says. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

He's looking down at her hand on his, at the warm points of contact. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he tamps it down with some irritation. "I just wish you could trust me enough to tell me the plan."

She laughs outright. "Wash, remind me what happened the last time we planned a surprise party together?"

"I have no idea," he says primly.

"You guilted yourself into telling York everything. Ring any bells? I still remember his fake expression of surprise. Very disappointing." She pulls her hand free, then reaches up and tugs on a lock of his hair, teasingly. "So this time you get to be in the dark. The twins aren't gonna suspect a thing."

He snorts and tries to elbow her in the side, but she dodges out of the way. "Fine," he says. "You're lucky we're a good team."

"The best," she says, and pulls him in for a kiss.


	10. Childhood, Family, Cookies: CTSouth

Prompt provided by hatepig on tumblr: "Childhood, Family, Cookes, CT/South"

* * *

CT has experienced a lot of incredibly strange things. Giant killer aliens. Explosions in zero-g. Carolina giggle-snorting that one time when she thought nobody was looking.

But nothing—_nothing_—in her life has prepared her for the sight of South standing in the doorway to her quarters, wearing a tank top and aggressively adorable polka-dot pyjama pants, holding a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

"Um," says CT.

"You shut up," South says, and elbows past her, dropping the tray on CT's bedside table with a clatter. Cookies thus delivered, she flops face-first onto CT's bunk.

"Um," says CT, again, and perches on the edge of the bed. The smell of the cookies is doing weird things to her brain, dragging her back to memories of a little townhouse she'd put a lot of effort into forgetting. "I can't help noticing that you appear to have baked me cookies."

"Mrph," South says, into a pillow, then raises her head. "You're cute. Cookies are cute. It makes sense. Fuck you."

CT hesitates, then leans forward to dig her knuckles into the knotted muscles of South's bare shoulders. South grumbles sleepily, gives a catlike stretch-and-yawn, then goes limp beneath her fingers. CT grins. "You fight with your brother again?"

"Never," South mutters into the pillow. "I don't fight with anyone, least of all my _perfect_, _charming_, _kind _brother."

CT digs her fingers in particularly hard as punishment for the sarcasm, but South just gives another contented sigh. "So when you get really angry, you sneak into the mess hall and bake cookies?" She pauses the massage to tousle South's hair. "That's adorable."

"You're adorable," South corrects her, sitting up with a glare. "It makes sense. Eat the fucking cookies."

CT snaps off a salute. "Yes ma'am."


	11. Give Up, Last Hope: Carolina, Kimball

Prompt provided by jestershark on tumblr: "Give Up, Last Hope: Carolina, Kimball"

* * *

The New Republic's temporary headquarters is bombed three weeks into the ceasefire.

When Carolina wakes up in an Armonia hospital, her wide-eyed guard explains that Kimball was the one who pulled her clear of the debris at great risk to her own life. She's not sure what to make of that revelation, at least not until Kimball strolls in, drops a stack of papers on Carolina's hospital bed, and sinks back into a chair, launching into a detailed description of their latest revisions for the proposed electoral reform. Carolina watches her for a moment, then stuffs another pillow behind her back to prop herself up and joins in.

They never do talk about it. A faction of Federalist extremists takes credit for the bombing, their ringleader is arrested, and the Federal Army offers the New Republic a new base of operations. It takes almost three hours for Carolina to talk Kimball into accepting the peace offering. "If they try to use you," she tells her, "you use them right back."

Two weeks later, a sniper's shot catches Kimball in the shoulder, nicking the artery. They're both out of armor, buying groceries, but Carolina still moves with the quick confidence of the battlefield, pushing a jacket against the wound, snarling for a medic when Kimball passes out with her pulse still thrumming too-fast against Carolina's fingers. It's not until they're in an ambulance, halfway to the hospital, that Carolina thinks to wonder whether the shooter got away.

Kimball wakes up two nights later, dazed and hazy with the painkillers. Carolina, waiting at her bedside, tells her that the shooter was one of theirs, a young soldier terrified by what he perceived as an upcoming alliance with the Federal Army. "He lost three siblings in the war," Carolina says.

Kimball blinks once, slowly, then says, "I'm done."

Carolina pours her a glass of water from the pitcher next to her bed. "All right," she says.

Kimball pushes away the glass when Carolina tries to hand it to her. Her voice is high and thin and wavers with exhaustion. "I mean it. I'm finished. Let someone else tear Chorus to the ground. It won't be me."

"That all sounds very dramatic," Carolina says. "You need to drink something. I don't know if you noticed, but you lost some fluids a few days ago. Small sips."

Kimball eyes her malevolently, then makes a grab for the water. Her hand shakes, but she manages to down the entire glass without spilling. She sits up with a groan, sets the glass on the table. "I don't think you're hearing me," she says. "I want to resign. Let someone else take my place."

"You don't strike me as the type to give up," Carolina says. "And I think you underestimate what you mean to a lot of people."

Kimball traces a finger along the edges of the bandage poking through her hospital gown. "I know what I mean to some."

"That's fine," says Carolina. "And if you tell me to drop it, I'll drop it. But I'll be here to pull you out when you need me."

Kimball squints at her. "Is this one of your convoluted-roads-to-atonement things?"

Carolina smiles. "Maybe. Why don't you sleep on it. We'll talk again in the morning."

Kimball sighs, closes her eyes and slumps back against her pillow. "We'll do better," she says, softly.

"Yeah," Carolina says. "We always do."


	12. No Way Out: Carolina, Director

Prompt provided by greatscottdoc on tumblr: "No Way Out, Are You Challenging Me"

* * *

"She went too far," Carolina says. This is, she knows, the key to arguing: find a strong thesis. Stick with it. Find new ways to express it, but stay on topic, stay persistent. Sometimes repetition wins where subtler methods of persuasion fail. "We were only ordered to retrieve CT's armor, not kill her."

The Director looks at her over his glasses. "Those were your orders, yes."

"My orders," says Carolina. She's been standing at rigid attention for nearly an hour. The bullet graze on her calf is a dull ache at the back of her mind. The tension and pain, she thinks, must be the reason why she's trembling. "As opposed to Tex's orders."

"Agent Texas," the Director says, "is the current Number One on the leaderboard. If you will recall, Agent Carolina, when you occupied that position, you were privy to certain… details."

Carolina's jaw is set. "Details that would justify killing a teammate in cold blood."

The Director's hand spasms into a fist; Carolina flinches instinctively. "You failed your mission. The retrieval of Agent Connecticut's armor was non-negotiable. By any means necessary, Agent."

Persistence is key. Carolina takes a shaky step forward. "Sir, I understand the importance of retrieving that armor, but—"

"I very much doubt that you do, Agent Carolina," he says, and looks down at the tablet in front of him. "Dismissed. Tell Agent Texas I'm ready for her debrief at any time."

Carolina stands rigidly, breathing short, sharp breaths.

"Insubordination," the Director says, "is not something I've come to expect of you, Agent. You do not challenge me." He glances up at her. "Let's not forget who taught you to argue in the first place. Persistence without reason is not a virtue. Pick your battles, Carolina. And for God's sake, start winning the battles you pick." He lowers his voice. "You're bleeding on my floor, Agent. Get to the infirmary. Dismissed."

Carolina meets his eyes for a long moment. She looks away first.

"Yes, sir," she says.


	13. Heal: Wash, Carolina

Prompt provided by queseraawesome on tumblr: "Heal: Wash, Carolina"

* * *

Wash wakes up, then promptly wishes he hadn't. There's a dull ache at the back of his skull, a sharp pain in his ribs with every breath, and the whole experience is smeared out with the nauseatingly familiar buzz of painkillers. He opts not to open his eyes, on the off-chance that'll help him pass out again.

A low background hum resolves itself into the sound of engines, and the lurch in his gut isn't entirely due to the medication. Flying, then. Airlifted. That can't be good.

Overlaid on the engine noise is the quiet murmur of voices. He picks out some sort of quiet argument, a distant tone of sharp, professional discussion. Someone's crying, he thinks.

Tucker's voice rings out, startlingly weak. "Palomo," he says, "I swear I will fucking die just to spite you if you don't. Stop. Crying."

Wash opens his eyes. He's in a small transport ship of some sort, crowded with people—the Reds and Blues, Emily Grey, a handful of people in New Republic armor, most of whom are huddled around a prone form at the other end of the ship. There's not nearly enough room for all of them, and yet the Reds have somehow managed to cordon off a small section of their own. Give them a few more hours, Wash thinks, and they'll have a base set up.

"Hey."

Wash glances up. Carolina's perched on a crate next to him, her helmet at her feet. There are deep circles bruised under her eyes, and she's pinching her nose and leaning forward, apparently trying to stop a nosebleed. "You look like hell," Wash croaks.

"Yup," says Carolina, but there's a smile in her voice. "Tucker did it. We did it. Felix and Locus got away, but there's a ceasefire at Armonia. We're on our way there now."

Wash closes his eyes, breathes shallowly through his mouth for a moment, then opens them again. "Is everyone—"

"Everyone's fine," Carolina says. "Tucker's hurt, but not as badly as Palomo's emotional breakdown would suggest. He's stable. The rest of us got a few bruises and scrapes, that's all." She straightens up, glaring at the blood on her hand, then nudges him with her knee. "You scared the hell out of us, by the way. When you didn't come back, we never expected Locus would leave you alive."

Wash manages a painful shrug. "Guess I got through to him," he says, and coughs. "Lucky me." Relieved exhaustion is making it easier to fade back into unconsciousness, and he can already feel a familiar dream coming on: a long, slow fall through a fathomless darkness. It's a mildly unsettling experience, because nobody ever reaches down to him, and he never quite starts falling fast enough to jolt himself awake.

This time, though, a hand clasps his own. He opens his eyes enough to faintly make out Carolina's smile. "Hey," she says. "You know I've got your back, right? We made a good team out there. And… I think I'm starting to understand what you mean about the Reds and Blues."

"Yeah," he says. He's smiling. He thinks maybe the darkness might just be held at bay a little longer. "Thanks, boss."


End file.
